“No,” said William.
But the boy’s tone was friendly so William cautiously entered the kitchen and began to watch him. The boy was cleaning silver with a paste which he made by the highly interesting process of spitting into a powder. William watched, absorbed. He longed to assist.
“You live here?” he said ingratiatingly to the boy.
“Naw,” said the boy laconically. “House boy. Only came to-day,” and added dispassionately. “Rotten place.”
“Is it a prison?” said William with interest.
The boy seemed to resent the question.
“Prison yourself,” he said with spirit.
“A lunatic asylum, then?” said William.
This seemed to sting the boy yet further.
“Garn,” he said pugnaciously, “Oo’re yer callin’ a lunatic asylum?”